Relapse
by scripting life
Summary: All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Beckett together again.
1. Chapter 1

**EDIT 4.22.12: I just uploaded a video on youtube that I made as a sort of promo for this fic. Go check it out at http:/ youtu. be/ KpXfi9WGlhk (minus the spaces and fill in the back-slash), and let me know what you think! :)**

A/N: This is not a happy fic. There will eventually be a happy ending (or at least, some semblance of one) because I'm a hopeless sap, but the process of getting there is not happy. So...consider yourself warned?

Also, all I know about PTSD is what I've read off of Wikipedia and a couple of other internet sites. Obviously, I'm not an expert, so I apologize ahead of time if I misrepresent anything in this.

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Spoilers: Through promos for "Headhunters" 4x21. I'm ignoring all the leaks about the season finale though, and this takes place around mid-May, 2012.

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Disclaimer: I think I would go the way of a certain fictitious head writer for _Temptation Lane_ if I were a part of Castle's writing team and had this happen. Fortunately for my continued well-being, I remain simply a fanfiction writer.

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**_RELAPSE_**

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**Diagnostic Criteria for Posttraumatic Stress Disorder**

**C: Persistent avoidance and emotional numbing**

This involves a sufficient level of:

- avoidance of stimuli associated with the trauma, such as certain thoughts or feelings, or talking about the event(s);

- avoidance of behaviors, places, or people that might lead to distressing memories;

- inability to recall major parts of the trauma(s), or decreased involvement in significant life activities;

- decreased capacity (down to complete inability) to feel certain feelings;

- an expectation that one's future will be somehow constrained in ways not normal to other people.

An excerpt of the stipulations set forth in the _Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders IV (Text Revision) _as seen on Wikipedia (date accessed: 2012 April 02)

* * *

It's the second time in six months that she's gotten black-out drunk, and she instinctively knows that this episode is going to be a hell of a lot worse.

The paranoia (there's a sniper behind every closed door) hunts her relentlessly, but she's experienced that before and she knows that though her physical response (increased heart rate, hyperventilation, sensory overload) makes her feel like she's close to a panic attack, her mind recognizes it for what it is. So it's not that. Nor are the delusions any more intense than the first time a sniper case triggered the onset of her posttraumatic stress disorder, and she figures she'll never _not_ relive the memories. So that's not why either.

Not to say that either of those issues are easy to deal with, but they are nonetheless effects that she's dealt with before.

This though…This she hasn't.

This time she's alone. Really, truly alone.

(He's gone, even though he's there every day, and within the rubbles of her demolished wall there is only a malnourished heart too easily crushed beneath the feet of indifference.)

This time it's just her and her screwed up head seeing rivers of blood and glints of metal through windows that have now become her prison bars. Sirens and car honks are her heart monitors and resuscitators and the half-empty bottle of vodka on the table, her scalpel.

She's spiraling again, and she doesn't think she can stop it because this time a part of her doesn't want to bother trying.

(Not when _I love you, Kate_ is inseparable from a bullet to her heart. Not when she completely missed it when _always_ somehow became _fun and uncomplicated is just what I need in my life right now_.)

She thought she was okay, that she'd made it past the grappling fingers of her trauma.

It turns out she'd only put a bandaid on an amputated limb.

She's a fool for thinking that she could ever have anything resembling a normal life.

...

_"Captain, I'd like to request a vacation leave."_

_"How long, Detective?"_

_"I... I'm not sure yet."_

_"Everything alright?"_

_"Yes. Fine. I just need some time to get my head back on straight."_

_"Alright." Gates studied her with disturbingly deep-seeing eyes. "Beckett, you're better without him."_

_Out of anyone else's mouth, those words would have sounded grossly patronizing. But she could tell that Gates meant every word that she spoke._

_"Thank you, sir."_

…

When Castle wakes up, he's still tired.

Not the I-partied-too-hard-and-now-I'm-reaping-the-consequences tired, nor is it the stayed-up-all-night-all-week-to-break-a-tough-case tired. No, this is the heart-sore, heartbroken kind of weariness that drags down his very soul.

He's been feeling this kind of tired a lot more often these days.

He knows the reason why, but he's also gotten really good at avoidance and self-deception these days.

His dreams—nightmares—are a factor, and he knows it's bad when the horrific memories of Montgomery yelling at him to take Kate away from the hangar and the blood that had fanned out beneath his dead body and the guilt of not being able to save him, to save anyone, are easier to face than the truth that she is—was—his best friend and she'd violated that trust.

_Some things are better not remembered_, she'd said, and he agrees. Too bad nothing he's done—not the flight attendant who's only fault was that she was the complete opposite of Beckett or the detective who's as gray as she is by the book—can make him forget his love for her.

There's a thin line between love and hate these days, and he fears that the caustic emotions will burn—have burned—a hole in his soul.

He gives himself another five minutes of wallowing in bed before he prepares to face the day before him with a smile plastered on his face.

He thinks—he _knows_ that both his mother and daughter know that it's all an act, but he can't help but play the part in front of them too. If he allows himself to look at it closer, he'd have to admit that he's not putting on a show for their sake but for his. He can't afford to let anyone else see the shattered pieces of him because he won't be able to pick up the shards if he does. His broken self needs to stay to himself, just like his pitiful attempts at gluing the jagged edges together do.

…

The first thing Castle notices when he walks into the homicide division at the 12th precinct is Ryan and Esposito talking in hushed whispers. This by itself isn't what he'd call odd per se, but what is strange is the fact that they keep casting glances over at Beckett's desk. Beckett's empty desk.

"Hey guys. Where's Beckett?"

"Gone," replies Esposito.

"Gone, like for a dead body? Why didn't you guys go?"

"No, bro, gone as in taking a vacation gone."

He doesn't know why the fact that she hadn't called him to tell him that she was leaving exacerbated the aching hole in his chest, especially considering the distance he's been putting between them lately, but it does. It stings and he's afraid that this kind of pervasive hurt will never stop.

"How long?" he asks, trying to make his tone as nonchalant as possible.

Esposito and Ryan shrug in tandem. "Don't know. She didn't say."

"Huh."

He's more than a little confounded and it's obvious that the boys are too. In the four years that he's known her, Beckett has never once requested an extended leave.

"You think it has anything to do with her shooting?" wonders Ryan.

Castle startles and stares at the detective in confusion. "Her shooting? What does this have to do with her shooting?"

Both Ryan and Esposito shoot him identical incredulous looks.

"You're kidding right?" Esposito's expression turns thunderous. "You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"Last year today was the day she got shot."

...

When she applied for leave, Kate had originally wanted to leave the city for a couple of days. She needed time to get away from it all, away from Castle and his flavor of the week. Away from the overwhelming sense of inferiority that had risen up in her in recent weeks. (She's not good enough as a woman, and apparently she's not good enough as a partner or a muse.)

She'd thought maybe she could go back to her dad's cabin. It'd worked well enough the first time around.

But when she finished packing her duffle and grabbed her helmet, ready to leave behind the city for a while, she realizes she can't do it. She can't leave.

It would be better if the reason is because she's seen through to how much of a coward she is being, but the truth is that she _physically _can not leave.

Standing just beside her front door with a hand on the doorknob and the other grasping her bag, she freezes. The thudding of her heart beats too loudly in her head, and a rush of white noise drowns out any possibility of logical thought.

Outside these four walls, there is a sprawling city filled with towering skyscrapers and not enough cover. There is a sniper waiting for her to lower her guard (and really, what's the use of even having a guard when it'll be too late to take cover by the time she's attacked?). There is a Dragon who wants her dead because her mother dug too deep and now she's dug too deep, and she's been living with the sword of Damocles hanging over her head for so long that she just _knows_ that the blade will fall soon.

She can't leave.

She's trapped in the jail of her own mind, the walls of her apartment closing in on her until she can only see the narrowest of tunnels.

There's no light at the end.

She could see no end at all.

...

Castle can't breathe. His heart chokes up his throat and his vision swims with dizzying bursts of light and dark behind his eyelids.

He can't believe he'd forgotten, can't believe that he'd been so absorbed in his own dilemma of heartache that he'd neglected to spare even the briefest of thoughts to the ongoing trauma the woman he still loved is struggling through.

It's likely they'll never be anything more than friends, if even that these days, but this is something that he should have been cared about for anyone, never mind a woman he yet to figure out how to excise from his brain.

It makes him sick to the stomach to realize that she is God knows where trying to figure this out on her own. "Did she say where she was going to go?"

"No. I got the impression she wanted to get out of town for a while though."

The _to avoid you_ goes unspoken but it convicts him with just as great a force.

It's so easy to forget that just one year ago, Kate had survived a bullet to the heart by merit of nothing but sheer willpower. It's so easy to put out of mind the fact that her episode of PTSD just six months ago had very nearly crippled her, both physically and mentally.

She's still broken, and he knows that she must hate knowing that.

He should check up on her. He should be with her. He should be there. He should—

He shouldn't.

He can't.

Not when he's pushed her so far away this past month and half that he doesn't even know whether they still count as friends anymore.

Not when he doesn't know whether he can trample on his own heart so that he could look after hers.

But he also can't abandon her for the sake of self-preservation.

She needs someone right now, even if she'll deny it to her last breath, and if he can't be the one...

Lanie. A girlfriend. That's what she needs.

He needs to talk to Lanie.

…

Lanie isn't happy to see him. She hasn't been happy to see him in weeks.

He knows it's not a coincidence that she's been icing him as long as he's been cold-shouldering Beckett.

_What are friends for, but to convict indiscriminately based on one side's story?_ he'd initially ridiculed in his head.

Now, he can only hope that Lanie's tenacious loyalty to Beckett would mean that she knows what's going on with the detective.

"Castle, what the hell are you doing here?" the ME throws at him without preamble.

"Have you talked to her?" he asks instead of responding.

Her expression is too carefully blanked. "Who?"

"Don't mess with me right now Lanie. You know who."

"The hell I do. You could be referring to your string of blonde bimbettes for all I know."

"Beckett. Kate. You know, your _best friend_?"

Lanie's casual facade falls away in an instant, and this time when she glares at him, he sees all the anger that's banked up there. "You do _not_ get to use that tone with me, Richard Castle. You have no right. You have no right to take that position from me, abandon her, and then come and accuse _me_ of neglecting her. You don't think I'm worried about her? Who do you think was the one who sat through late night panic attacks with her and cried with her when you decided to play all these stupid games with her heart?"

She gets up in his face and though she's a whole head shorter and then some than he is, she shoves him hard enough that he stumbles back against one of the autopsy tables. "Damn you Castle! There aren't a lot of people I hate, but you're getting pretty close to the top of that list juat about now. She was doing so well! Why'd you have to do that to her? Why would you spend all this time convincing her that you're for real, and just when she believes, you take it all away from her? Why?"

And then she does something that he never thought he would have ever witness in his life. The stalwart ME who has been such a rock for their team suddenly breaks down in tears.

"What am I supposed to do? I'm so goddamned worried about her but she keeps dodging my calls and every time I show up at her apartment she puts on this show for me, and I called her therapist's office and even though they refuse to tell me anything on account of ethics and all that stupid doctor-patient privilege, I just _know_ that she hasn't gone in weeks. And now she's even taking off from work and I feel like I'm such a useless best friend that I can't even make her see that she doesn't have to go through this alone. Why did you have to go and break her again? _Why_ Castle?"

He can't respond. He can't even breathe.

Too much. It's all too much. Too many revelations he'd been too blind to see. Too much hurt that she'd kept to herself, too much hurt she never allowed him to see.

The knowledge that she doesn't trust him is too much.

He can't, he just-

"Dad? Dr. Parish? What's going on?"

"Alexis," he breathes, and the sight of his daughter in scrubs and holding a clipboard in her hands still hits him like a punch in the gut every time.

Lanie recovers first even though she's the one who has to wipe away her tears and her smudged makeup. "Nothing, Alexis. It's fine."

Alexis has never had a high capacity for tolerating lies. "No, it's something."

"Alexis, let's not talk about it right now," he says, but even he can tell that his tone is more weary than commanding.

"It's about Detective Beckett, isn't it?"

"Alexis…"

"No, Dad, you need to know. You and Dr. Parish both need to know."

"What?" asks the writer and ME simultaneously.

"Mr. Beckett just called. He said that both your phones went to voicemail. Detective Beckett was supposed to arrive at his cabin two hours ago, but she never arrived, and she's not answering her phone either."

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A/N: It was really hard deciding to actually write this. Beckett is such a strong woman and it actually hurts to write her having a complete breakdown. But while Beckett is strong, she's also very fragile, and I think it would only take a push in either direction for her to either fall down again or break out of it completely. The show, I think, is taking the direction of her recovery. As such, I wanted to explore the other possibility.

Anyhow, I don't know how long this particular story line will take before I'm happy with where it ends, but in the meantime, I hope you'll all be gracious to indulge me in my yarn-spinning. :) Thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I am so, so, SO incredibly sorry that it's taken me this long to update. When I first started writing this, I had a clear picture of what was going to happen: Beckett would have a relapse episode of PTSD, Castle would find out and took her to the Hamptons with him to recover and all sorts of drama and angst would go down there. I didn't know how long it would take and what specific issues I wanted to tackle aside from the PTSD, but I knew that it would happen with Castle and Beckett in isolation._

_It didn't happen that way. I tried. I really tried, but the characters refused to cooperate. Actually, _Lanie_ refused to cooperate. She kept on popping up and saying how she would no way let any girlfriend of hers be swept off to the Hamptons with a man made a sudden about face from Mr. Always to Return of the Playboy with no discernible reason. So instead I had to rewrite and rewrite until they decided that this was the direction they wanted to take. Where it all ends up, I now have no idea. Thank you so much for all your interest and kind words thus far, and I sincerely hope that I won't have to wrestle my characters for control every single chapter. _

_On the upside, while I was figuring out how to write this chapter, I rediscovered my enthusiasm for vidding (which I haven't done in AGES). I'm a bit rusty, but I managed to bang out a promo video of sorts to go with this fic. Check it out and let me know what you think!_

_**http:/ youtu. be/ KpXfi9WGlhk** (fill in the backslash and take out the spaces)_

_By the way, this is completely unrelated, but fun to share. I went to the gun range with my dad the other day. (The whole time my dad was teaching me to shoot, I kept thinking about that scene where Beckett "teaches" Castle to shoot. Haha.) Seriously though, I have a whole new respect for people who can shoot consistently within the ten-ring because it's a whole lot harder than it looks. The recoil is a lot stronger than I expected, and the sound a whole lot more ear-drum busting (if you're foolish enough to go without earmuffs - I slipped one side off to get my hair out of my face, and my hearing in that ear was fuzzy for about an hour afterwards). All in all, an awesome experience, and I did manage to get more than three inside the ten-ring, so I guess I'm going home with evidence, eh? :D_

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Chapter Two

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The pounding in her head won't stop.

She watches with a strange sense of detachment as rivulets of blood run down her arms from the glass shards embedded in them, and she recalls that this has happened to her before. Six months ago, she'd shattered a tumbler and cut herself with the glass as she made a mad reach for her gun. It's probably bad that the lines are so blurred between that incident and this one that she can't tell what happened when.

She knows something is seriously wrong with her, something terribly wrong with this apathy she feels, but she can't grasp it.

The pounding gets louder, and she thinks that the vodka is doing its job a little too well.

"Kate, open the door! Kate!"

Strange. That sounds a lot like Castle. But sometimes it sounds like Lanie, and she knows her mind is playing tricks on her when she hears Alexis' voice call out, "Detective Beckett!"

"Kate!" The pounding grows louder and more desperate. "Please Kate, I know you're in there. Open the door!"

That can't be Castle. Castle is done with her, done waiting for her. And that's how it should be.

This deep-seated sickness in her will only drag him down. She's too messed up. He deserves someone better, someone _whole_. She will never be that person. She knows that now. He has to know that too. Why else would he have given up on her?

The pounding stops.

_See_, a nasty part of her sneers to her miserable self. Nothing but her imagination (and too much alcohol).

But then the whole frame of her door rumbles like it's being rammed once, twice, and on the third time, the whole setting cracks as splinters fly into her foyer and the heavy wood panel creaks in exaggerated fashion as it slams open with a bang.

She sees none of it because she curls into a tight ball the moment she hears the loud crack rend through her loft.

_Beckett's down!_

_Where's the shooter?_

She hears her name distantly, feels hands on her shoulders, in her hair, but she doesn't uncurl herself. She can't. All she can see is a flash of light and then pain, pain that she relives in all her nightmares, rips through her chest.

He will kill her, and she can do nothing to stop it.

…

He cries.

When he sees her long frame bent into this pitiful fetal position on the apartment floor, he's assaulted by a dizzying mix of relief and heartbreak and terror and guilt and so many others vying for control that he can't even begin to stem the tide. The tears slip over his eyelids and down his cheeks without a fight.

His hands shake, and he wishes he had better physical control because she needs him to be strong right now. She needs him to—no. _He_ needs her to need him to stand strong.

"Kate," he calls, and his voice breaks, but she doesn't notice. He wishes she would notice.

Lanie doesn't hesitate to push past his frozen stance and to gather up the detective into her arms. The smaller woman rocks Kate's catatonic form while whispering soothing words against her hair. "Oh, honey, it's going to be okay. It's all going to be okay."

A small hand grips his sleeve hard and he glances over to see Alexis' glazed eyes.

She shouldn't have to see this. Kate wouldn't want her to see this. And though it takes everything in him to turn away from Kate right now, he needs to protect both Kate and his daughter.

He drapes his arm over Alexis' shoulders and turns her around. "Come on, let's get them something to drink."

She nods, but he can tell that she's still in shock.

"Come on, pumpkin."

He guides her to the kitchen where he puts a kettle on the stove and reaches for the tea bags he knows Kate stashes in her cabinets. Coffee fiend she may be at work, but when she's at home, she prefers teas. Castle loves those quirks about her. He loves knowing that he knows these quirks about her.

He takes out four mugs and pushes them toward Alexis for her to choose a tea and put it in. She does so mechanically.

He sighs. "I'm sorry, Alexis. I'm sorry I didn't push harder for you to stay at the morgue. You…really don't need to see this."

_He _doesn't need to see this.

No, that's not true. He doesn't _want_ to see it because he selfishly can't face up to the knowledge that Kate had been through such trauma to paralyze her like this, but he knows he needs to see it. He needs to see it because he realizes he hasn't really understood. He thought he did, but he didn't.

When Alexis finally speaks, her words echo his.

"I was wrong about her, wasn't I, Dad? These past few months, I kept on thinking that Detective Beckett was so selfish with you and everything, but I never really understood it, did I?"

Like father, like daughter.

He sighs, deeply and heartfelt. "Neither did I, pumpkin."

"Is she going to be okay?"

"I hope so."

The murmurs from the open living room have ceased, and a surreptitious glance shows Lanie gently shepherding Kate into her bedroom.

Castle looks longingly at the closed door and wishes that he were the one with the right to take care of Kate like this.

He'd given up that right with his behavior these past weeks.

Or maybe…Maybe she'd never wanted to give him those rights to begin with.

That stings, and all the pain that he'd been trying to bury ever since he found out that she'd lied about remembering comes rushing to the forefront once again. Months of uncertainty and agony that he'd spent with nothing but her silence only to be replaced by months of unfounded hope so easily crushed by a lie.

Maybe he's being petty, especially considering how broken she'd looked when he'd knocked down her door, but it doesn't stop it from hurting less. If anything, it hurts more, this knowledge that she'd been struggling so much on her own and yet hadn't wanted to share any of it with him.

He tries to figure out when this descent back into the claws of her PTSD started up again. After that case with the sniper in November, he'd thought that she was improving. That she'd suddenly started spiraling again and he'd had no idea...It disturbs him deeply.

Was this something she's been dealing with even after that case, or was it triggered more recently? He doesn't even know which one he'd rather it be. If it's the prior, then he'd jumped to conclusions too quickly and blamed her for something that wasn't entirely in her control. If it was the latter though…

He can't help but wonder whether he's the one who brought this on.

(But no. She has to actually care about him for him to influence her to this extent. It can't be him. It can't. He doesn't think he can handle it if it's because of him.)

Lanie exits Kate's room and shuts the door behind her.

"She's sleeping now. Peacefully, or at least as peaceful as she's going to be with this hanging over her head."

Castle breathed a sigh of relief. "That's good."

"I'll give Jim a call to let him know that Kate is fine, but he's probably going to make the trip out here anyway. I'll stay with her tonight so you guys can go home and get some rest."

It's strange. The ever-unfolding story in his head tells him that _he_ is the one who is supposed to take charge right now. _He _is the one who is supposed to stay over and make sure she's okay. She's always been the hero, but he is the protagonist, or if not that, then he at least can claim the role of the partner or the plucky sidekick.

In any case, he's the one who doesn't leave.

He's not supposed to be the guy whose worries get appeased by the best friend and waits for the next plot twist before he can interact with the heroine again. He's not supposed to be the one brushed off as an inconvenience.

He's not supposed to be, but he is.

It's moments like these that make him realize that he's never really given up trying to write the story of life. It's also moments like these that make him understand the impossibility of it all.

"She can come home with us," states Alexis suddenly, and both her boss and her dad stare at her in surprise. "She's stayed with us before."

"Oh, honey, that's sweet of you," Lanie begins and flickers her eyes at Castle, "but I really don't think it's a good idea for Kate to be there."

They all know what she really means is that she doesn't think Kate should be staying with Castle.

"Please, Dr. Parish. You're needed at the OCME, and if you don't mind, I could just take a couple of days off to stay at home, if you don't think Detective Beckett would be comfortable alone with—alone."

"Alexis, you don't have to—"

"I want to. Please. I…owe it to her."

Lanie sighs. "Alexis, I think you're about the sweetest girl to have ever been born, but you have to know that she's not going to be easy. And I'm sorry I have to say this, but I don't know if I can trust either you or Castle to stick with her through the worst of it. I've seen what she was like when she first entered the Academy and how she drove herself into the ground even worse than she did last year. This is going to be even harder than that. It's not something you can get through because of an obligation. And to be frank, Kate doesn't deserve to be treated like one."

Alexis' crisp blue eyes cloud with tears and he's never seen such a stricken expression on her before. "That's not what I meant. I just…I just want to make sure she's okay."

"I know sweetie, but trust me on this: the last thing Kate would want is to wake up feeling weak and vulnerable in front of people she wants to be strong for. Let me take care of her tonight, and we'll see what happens tomorrow. Okay?"

Alexis glances at him, eyes wide and needy, and Castle forces himself to nod. With all the tension thrumming just below (and above) the surface between him and Kate these days, Lanie's way is probably for the best. It doesn't do anything for the agitated tattoo of his heart that demands that he stay, but this isn't about him. He can't make it about him.

"Let's go home, pumpkin. We'll check in on Detective Beckett tomorrow."

Alexis wavers, clearly wanting to say something, but she swallows her words and sighs. It sounds far too old and weary to be coming from his eighteen year old. "Alright. But you'll let us know if you or Detective Beckett need anything, right?"

"Yes, I will."

They leave, and Castle knows that he has failed miserably at his attempt at switching off his love for her. He feels like he's left his heart in her apartment, and he has, in more than one way.

…

When Kate wakes up, it's to a hammering headache and heavy limbs.

It's dark in her room, and for a moment, she can't recall how she got to bed. The last she remembered was being out in the living room with a glass of vodka in one hand and her head clutched in the other. She remembers…the memories. They'd rushed at her, drowned her, until all she could see was blue of the sky, blue of his eyes, and red, red, red.

She bleeds crimson, and he leaks saline tears that etch every word onto her punctured heart.

_Kate, I love you. I love you Kate._

She shuts her tightly and braces herself against the onslaught of emotions that render her immobile.

She hates this so much. She hates this physical weakness that's been conditioned into her. She hates her screwed up mind. She almost wants to hate herself, but she's not that far gone yet.

She's a fighter; she always has been and always will be, but she gets so tired of scaling the same wall every time and plummeting back to the ground whenever she (inevitably) loses her grip. There's a limit to how much a person can handle—mentally, physically, emotionally—and she's afraid of how dangerously close she's treading that line.

The door opens, a slat of artificial light slanting into the room, and she blinks owlishly at the silhouette standing in the way.

(She will deny to her last breath that she's disappointed it isn't _him_. She knows her head had been playing tricks on her last night; she just knows it.)

"Lanie," Kate manages to croak out. Oy, that was just pathetic. She tries to clear her throat, but the wad of thick cotton refuses to dislodge itself.

The door opens wider, and Kate flinches when the soft light floods her pupils. She shuts her eyes tightly, and by the time her vision has adjusted, Lanie has already made her way to the side of the bed.

"Hey girl."

That…was not a very happy greeting. It's not like Kate had been expecting rainbows and unicorns considering how her friend must have found her last night (at least she thinks it was last night), but she so isn't ready for _that_ look. The one that's pity and sadness and disappointment and exasperation and concern and I-swear-to-God-if-you-do-that-again-I'll-disembowel-you-myself all wrapped together. (Gotta love having someone more than handy with a scalpel as your best friend.)

They stare at each other for a while, and Kate abruptly sits up, not liking the feeling of being at a disadvantage when they "talk." She knows that there's a very high likelihood that Lanie is going to flat-out ream her, deservedly she will admit, and she needs to be not lying down if she's going to take a verbal beating.

Lanie wordlessly hands her a cup of water, and Kate downs it greedily.

"Thanks," she gasps almost breathlessly when there's nothing left in the cup. Not half-empty, nor half-full. Just empty. Jeez, that's pathetic.

Kate places the cup on her bedside table. "What time is it?"

"Eleven-ish."

"Oh." She chews her bottom lip relentlessly. "How long was I out?"

Lanie's eyebrow ticks and that's not a good sign. "You've been _sleeping_ for about three hours. Before that…God knows."

"I just…had a little too much to drink. It was stupid, but it won't happen again," she tries to explain, but the words are empty. She and Lanie have known each other long enough and well enough for both of them to know that that's complete B.S. As long as Kate is shadowed by this monster dogging her every step, there's every chance in the world that this will happen again, never mind Kate's usual aversion to over-imbibing thanks to a young adulthood filled with memories of cleaning up after her own alcoholic dad.

(Why is it that people always run headlong into the things that they _know_ will destroy them?)

Lanie sits—no, slumps—on the bed next to her, and the weariness radiating off of her entire demeanor is disconcerting. In all the years Kate has known Lanie, she has never before seen her so exhausted. Not even after her first double shift as a lowly intern at the OCME had the saucy M.E. looked this completely worn out.

That twisted piece of flesh in her chest squeezes painfully at the knowledge that she's managed to bring even this fount of energy to her last reserves.

"Kate, Kate, Kate. When are you gonna let someone in, sweetie?"

"Lanie…"

"Usually, I'd mean that romantically, but right now…This…you just—You're so far gone. When are you going to let your _friends_ be there for you?"

Kate clenches her jaw, a choking sob just waiting for her guard to come down before breaking out of her lips.

She doesn't know. She doesn't know how she became this person whose natural instinct is to evade all forms of intimate relationship, whether it be familial, romantic, or fraternal.

No, that's a lie. She knows exactly how. She let herself become this way because it was easier than letting someone else see all her numerous flaws. Stupid, she knows because here she is in all her weakened glory despite all those fences and walls and parapets and guard-towers she'd formed around herself.

If Castle were here, he'd tell her that this was a classic example of irony at its finest.

Lanie sighs when Kate doesn't say anything. "I called Jim to let him know you're okay, in a manner of speaking. Knowing your dad, he'll probably show up bright and early, so you should get some more rest. God knows you'll need it."

It's on the tip of Kate's tongue to ask about Castle, to ask whether he had really been there earlier that night or if her alcohol-fogged mind had dreamed up his presence.

She bites down on the words. She doesn't want to know. She doesn't want to know whether Castle had seen this destroyed version of Kate Beckett. She doesn't want to know in case he doesn't care enough to come.

Lanie makes to stand, but Kate's hand of its own volition darts out to grab her friend's wrist.

"I'm sorry, Lanie. I really am."

"I know you are, honey. And somehow that makes it worse."

Kate's fingers fall from the sturdy arms that have held her many an impromptu girlfriend cry session, and as she watches helplessly as another relationship hovers by a pit of flames, she wonders how she'd managed to distanced herself so fully from the people who really mattered without her realizing it.

(She doesn't have to wonder; she knows that it happened the same time a bullet tore through her flesh.)

* * *

_A/N: A reviewer mentioned that the last chapter sounded like a bit like Castle-bashing. I just wanted to clarify that that wasn't my intent in this particular fic. In fact, I don't want the focus to be on who screwed up more. They've both screwed up a lot and if we were to sit down and try to figure out who wronged the other the most, there logically wouldn't and shouldn't be a Caskett. Every relationship has its ups and downs, but it's useless to point fingers. Sometimes things happen where it's both of their faults and none of their faults, and what I want to do is to show the journey of working through it. This is about the process of recovery from a traumatic event, and the fact that it affects every single person in their circle._

_That being said, I'm trying to give a realistic portrayal of how I think the characters would react given that they have limited knowledge of the situation. Obviously, I had Lanie bash on Castle because she's coming from the perspective of Beckett's best friend and the fact that she has no idea why Castle suddenly started acting like a jerk and she's upset and worried about Beckett from a psychological standpoint. However, if I were to write Alexis' reaction to Kate's lie, then she would be definitely all up in Beckett's face for breaking her dad's heart. It's all a matter of perspective._

_Okay, sorry for the super long author's notes and I'll try to keep it contained next time. Thanks for reading! _


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thanks so much for all the support thus far! I've been blown away by the number of people who have put this on their story alert list, favorited, and reviewed. I know this isn't an easy fic to read, so I appreciate that people have been willing to slog through the darkness with me._

_Now if only the characters themselves would be willing to cooperate with me..._

* * *

Chapter Three

* * *

Castle makes it to about five thirty the next morning before he can't take it anymore.

He has to see her.

He regrets leaving her the moment he stepped out of her apartment, but there isn't another choice. Yes, he could push it, could refuse to leave until Lanie as her fearsome self-appointed guardian caves in, but he doesn't.

He has to think about Alexis and the tremors of shock that had her shaking the entire taxi ride back home. He has to think about how traumatizing it was for her to see a woman she looked up to, a woman who was such a prime example of a strong, modern woman, break down so completely. He has to think about the big picture.

But more than that, he has to think about Kate. Lanie is right in that the stubborn detective would hate to be seen at her weakest by him of all people. Who knows what kind of unnecessary emotional upheaval that might create? It tears him up inside to even think it, but the truth is that she was too broken last night to face him.

And so he left, for his daughter's sake, for her sake, and yes, for his own as well.

He needs time to regroup, to think and figure out just what he is going to do.

Once he tucks Alexis in to bed (something he hasn't done for years, but proves necessary in light of the night they've had), he returns to his study to just sit and think. He needs to stop avoiding the issue even—especially—in his own head.

It's easy determining why he'd been angry with her. Lies and cowardice.

It is also easy, in hindsight, to see that he'd possibly jumped to conclusions in his hurt. He'd thought her embarrassed by his unwanted feelings, but now that he forces himself to think about this without the lens of heartache shading everything black, he can see that the extremity of his reaction is a defense mechanism. He can't handle the all-too realistic possibility that she doesn't love him, could never love him. And so he hides behind his anger.

It doesn't soften the ache of knowing she knew but chose to deny it, but he can see now that he never gave her a chance to explain. He can see now that he has his own part to play in this mess.

Despite all the pain and anger and confusion of the past month and half, understanding and accepting those premises makes it frighteningly easy to acknowledge that what he wants now is no different from what he's wanted all along.

He wants her. He wants to stand with her and by her. He wants to build a future with her.

He loves her; he never could find that switch no matter what he did to dull his feelings these past weeks, and he's a fool for not understanding earlier that he can't give up on her. It's not so much that he doesn't want to give up (which a part of him never wanted, even when the hurt was at its sharpest), but more so that he really, truly _can't_.

He needs her. But maybe even more than that, he needs _them._

The only question is whether he's willing to risk his heart again for it.

It surprises him that he doesn't have to search his soul long for the answer.

_Yes._

…

When he shows up at her door just after six, he almost kicks himself for forgetting about her broken door. How could he have left her helpless when he knew—he _knew_—there is still a seemingly omniscient Dragon out there biding his time to take out the threat that is Beckett's tenacity? When _he_ could have legions of contract killers at his every beck and call? And sure, the blackmail is supposed to keep her safe, but what if _he_ decides that she is still too much of a threat?

They are never truly safe, and Castle of all people should know that the best.

Even if he were to disregard that all-too terrifying possibility, he knows firsthand the astronomical number of random break-ins gone wrong that happen on a daily basis in Manhattan, so how could he be so thoughtless? Lanie is alarmingly adept with a scalpel, yes, but if something were to truly happen, she is just one woman.

He shouldn't have left last night.

Panic tightens his chest and narrows his vision, but he forces himself to knock on the poorly fixed door that's sitting at a slight angle instead of bursting into the apartment like he had last night.

With all the worst case scenarios running through his head, he taps his feet impatiently against the floor. This is taking too long. It shouldn't take this long for Lanie to answer the door.

Something must be wrong. He needs to be inside. He needs to see. He needs to—

The chaos of his inner thoughts screeches to a halt when he sees the person at the other side of the door.

"Jim." The name pops from Castle's lips in surprise.

"Rick."

"I, uh…Hi. Good to see you. Sir." He presses his hand forward to shake Jim's hand and he feels ridiculously foolish for acting like a teenager unexpectedly faced with his date's dad. Completely inappropriate, considering the circumstances. "I just wanted to check on Bec—on Kate."

Jim opens the door fully to let him in. "I'm sure Katie will appreciate the thought."

Castle isn't so sure about that, but his words do tell him one thing: Jim knows nothing about the near breakup of their partnership. Should he feel reassured by that? Or disappointed that he doesn't even rate coming up in a conversation between Kate and her father?

Stupid, selfish thoughts to be having right now.

Castle nods and looks around for Lanie. He almost expects her to jump out at him like a guard dog. "Is Dr. Parish around?"

"No. They had a busy night at the morgue, and she was barely able to wait for me to arrive before she had to leave."

"Oh, I see."

And Castle does see. He sees that she doesn't trust him.

He considers Lanie a friend, but he could have never expected the sharp sting that this truth plunges in his gut. Lanie trusts him so little that she would rather sacrifice her professional duties to stay with a friend she wasn't sure she could rely on him to take care of in her absence. The knowledge burns.

They take a seat on Kate's couch, and for a while, neither of them says anything.

Castle doesn't like silences. He doesn't know how to handle them. That's probably why he often found himself to be the life of a party. If there's a silence, he always manages to find a way to fill in the bubble.

Go figure that the one time he can't find any words to say, it's with Jim Beckett.

Castle can almost hear the ubiquitous crickets that sound off in the background of all the best (worst) awkward moments, when Jim finally breaks the silence.

"So did Lanie call you too?"

And of course, Jim would do so in grand fashion. The question itself is innocuous and unremarkable.

It's his own reply that Castle hates thinking about.

"Uh, no. I was here last night."

"You didn't stay?" Jim's tone is inscrutable, but the unspoken _why_ resounds loudly between them.

"No." Castle swallows. "My daughter was here too," he offers by means of explanation.

The cloud lifts from Jim's eyes and Castle feels a little guilty for the unintentional misdirection. Jim still thinks that they're partners, friends, and who knows what else.

Jim trusts him, and his stomach flips at the realization.

So few people seem to trust him these days. Not Lanie. Not Esposito or Ryan. Not Gates.

Not Kate.

It's…nice, being trusted. Nice, and just a little terrifying.

"Kate wouldn't have wanted her to see."

Somehow the validation that Castle had done right in a tough situation isn't as comforting as it should have been.

Castle nods, not knowing what else to say in response.

Silence descends over them once again, and this time Castle only sits still for a couple of minutes before he suddenly lurches up off the couch, and momentum propels him into the kitchen.

"Would you like some coffee, Jim?" he asks, and only belatedly realizes how strange it is that he's offering Kate's father coffee from _her_ own apartment. The thought comes unbidden that this is what it would be like if they ever got together. His heart twists with the knowledge that this fantasy of domestic bliss won't ever become reality.

If Jim thinks there's anything presumptuous about Castle's doing so, however, he doesn't show it. "No coffee. A cup of tea would be great, though."

"Coming right up."

"I used to drink a lot of coffee," Jim explains without prompting. "It's probably where Katie gets it from, but after everything with Johanna and the alcoholism…I decided that it was better that I didn't drink anything that I might get addicted to. I know there's still caffeine in tea, but it somehow seems…better. Cleaner, I suppose."

God, this has got to be the most excruciating quasi-conversation he's ever been in. Castle wishes that he had explained to Jim from the start that—that what? That he and his daughter are essentially estranged? That they haven't had a real conversation in nearly two months? That she lied to him, and he lied to her, and now they're just this jumbled mess of untruths?

_Anything_ to stop the older man from what sounds like the beginnings of a soul-baring confession. Castle is in no position to hear this, has no right to be at the receiving end of this.

He tries to force himself to speak, but before anything comes out, Jim is speaking again, this time his voice taking the edge of introspection.

"I used to be afraid that addiction ran in the family. I lost myself in the bottle, but Katie…Katie got lost in obsession itself."

Castle wishes that Jim would stop talking. He shouldn't be listening to this. He really shouldn't.

But then the curiosity-killed-the-cat part of him soaks up these revelations spilling from her father's lips because he knows that he'll never get it from her own. He's treading morally ambiguous lines, he knows, but when it comes to her, he's never really had a firm grasp on boundaries.

"Katie's always been so stubborn. Once she latches onto something, there isn't any way you could force her to let go unless she herself is willing to. And more often than not, she isn't willing. After Johanna…Katie sank her teeth into the case, and over the years, no matter how beaten up and bloody she got over it, she refused to let go. That scared the living daylights out of me, let me tell you."

Jim's eyes lift from their firm fixture on the coffee table, and Castle has to brace himself against the counter for the overwhelming gratitude that spills from those weary depths.

"But then Katie met you, and she let go. She finally let go."

…

The moment awareness filters through her hangover-hazed brain, Kate remembers why she rarely drinks to excess anymore.

Everything _hurts_.

Her stomach lurches and she tumbles out of bed with a sudden burst of speed. She trips of something plastic sitting by her bedside, and she thanks God for Lanie when she sees that it's her trash bin lined with a plastic bag.

She's had little real sustenance in the last twenty-four hours, so what comes back up is mostly liquid and acid that burns her throat and leaves her teeth stinging with its acridity. Then come the dry heaves when the contents of her stomach are emptied, and those are almost worst because her body convulses and jerks and the sudden movements aggravate the consuming throbbing of her head.

Her eyes water from her body's painful betrayal.

God, she's miserable.

"Katie?" booms a whisper.

She groans. Too loud. All her senses are amplified, and she thinks that Castle would appreciate the irony. Last night she'd plied herself with alcohol to dull the overload of sensory input that had her seeing shadows in corners where there were none, but now everything is magnified a hundred-fold, and it just hurts.

Feet shuffle closer, and familiar, calloused hands gently pull her hair away from her face.

"Dad," she manages to croak between the arrhythmic lurching of her stomach.

"Hey, sweetheart," he murmurs at just the right decibel. Years of living in the bottle and dying from the hangovers have taught him well how to handle a rough morning after. He wishes it was knowledge he didn't have; he wishes even more that it was knowledge he wouldn't have to put to use with his baby girl.

"You're here," she says, and it's a question, not a statement. The pull of her insides to force themselves out of her have ceased momentarily and she rests her sweaty forehead against the comfort of her dad's shoulder.

"Of course I am."

"Lanie?"

"She had to take a case. The OCME was busy last night."

"People always dying," she remarks. It's a morbid thing to say, especially to her father, but the fog of her hangover heavily blankets her thought processes.

Jim doesn't say anything for a long time, long enough that even Kate's sloth-like brain catches up. "Dad…"

"Come on, Katie. Let's see if we can get you up."

It takes quite a bit of tugging and pulling—her dad isn't as strong as he used to be and Kate's sense of balance is far worse than it usually is—but they eventually manage to stand. Kate's arm wraps around Jim's waist for balance, and he grips her tight around the torso to help support her weight.

Kate has vague memories of this very same thing happening hundreds of times in the past, only in those dimmed recollections, their positions are reversed.

She banishes the bitter remembrances.

They hobble their way to the door before Jim speaks again. "You have another visitor, by the way."

"Visitor?"

Then she stops dead, almost causing the two of them to topple over, but her mind can't quite process what she's seeing.

"Castle. You're here."

…

Seeing her is a punch to his gut.

Well, seeing her is almost always a punch to his gut because every time he lays eyes on her, he wonders how it's even possible to have one person made up of so much beauty.

This time is different though.

This time, what captures his attention is not her haunting good looks or her kick-ass demeanor or her sly humor or her quick wit or her teasing laughter or any number of other features that attracted him in the past (and present).

This time, all he sees is her vulnerability.

There is only one other time when he's seen her this exposed, and he can't even bring himself to think about it because then memories of blood and terror and guilt and fear and devastation will overwhelm him.

He swallows, gaze flicking to Jim who watches them with well-masked confusion that transforms slowly into slightly narrowed eyes. The older man sees too much and yet nothing at all.

"Hey. I just…wanted to see how you're doing," Castle says, and he almost winces because it sounds stilted even to his own ears.

Her eyes—that mesmerizing blend of brown and green and seriousness and humor and determination—still carry a film of glaze, so it takes her longer than usual to shut down the emotions until they're blank. But it's too late because he's already seen the volatile mixture of pain, embarrassment, anger, and yes, even a quick flash of happiness. It clogs his throat.

"I'm fine, Castle. You don't need to be here."

Castle sees Jim whip his head over to his daughter and back to Castle in quick succession, and Jim's words from earlier that morning resound loudly in his ears.

_I know it's not fair that I keep making these requests of you, but I'm her father, and I will do whatever necessary to keep her safe. Rick, don't give up on her. Please. _

Castle wonders if her father regrets asking that of Castle now that he knows that Castle has no magical sway over Kate and never really did.

He swallows again, the lump in his throat refusing to go down.

He has a choice to make.

He can back down, and in doing so, wordlessly convey to her father that Castle just isn't the right man for the job. He can't help her. He can't get past her walls. He can't sacrifice himself on the altar of her misgivings. He can't lose any more pieces of himself than the multitude he's already given away to her.

Or…

Or he could choose to love regardless of the pain. He could choose the path of thorns even in the face of knowing that she might not ever love him in the way he loves her. He could choose certain heartache with not even a glimmer of hope to soothe the hurt because his love demands that he do what's best for _her_.

In the end, there is no choice.

He's always been a masochistic bastard.

"No, Kate. I _do_ need to be here."


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Holy cow, this fic is going to be the death of me! Seriously, I've never had characters be so uncooperative with me before. I totally didn't mean for this confrontation to happen now, but they refused to wait. Oy vey. In any case, I think this chapter might get some varied opinions. I will further explain why I chose to do what I did in the author's note at the bottom._

_Thank you so much for your patience and support!_

* * *

Chapter Four

* * *

Kate isn't supposed to have to deal with this right now.

A vice constricts her lungs, and she knows that if her hands weren't strangled in her dad's shirt, they'd be shaking uncontrollably.

She can't face Castle right now, not like this. Not without an inch of armor to protect her from this onslaught of emotions. Not when she's this raw and exposed. Not when she'd fallen asleep to echoing refrains of _fun and uncomplicated_ and woken up to the scathing memory of _what do you know about Detective Slaughter?_

He's not supposed to be here.

(Her heart is not supposed to leap with hope and joy at just the sight of him.

Foolish heart. He's the one who crushed you.)

_Why_ is he here when in the past weeks he's given her every indication that he's only sticking around for the cases?

She wants to yell at him, to scream and rail at him for showing up now of all times. She doesn't need his pity, and she can't survive this false hope that wells up in her from his mere presence. She can't stand him being here but _not_.

She sees resolve in his eyes—fathomless, blue eyes that have haunted and taunted her in every one of her dreams and nightmares for the past two months—and the need to break suffocates her.

_Not now. Not. Now._

She forces herself to breathe deep, steadying breaths.

_In, out. In, out. Just like that. Good girl, Katie._

The panic passes. She is in control again.

She remembers that her father is by her side, that she doesn't have to face the bitter-sweetness of Castle's concern on her own. She is not alone.

Her mind clears enough that she can drape herself in a mantle of insouciance. She's so proud of herself that her voice comes out steady. "Fine, whatever. We're heading up to Dad's cabin, so if you want to hang around an empty apartment, go for it."

A pause, then to her surprise it's Jim who speaks. "Actually, Katie, I don't think we should head up to the cabin right now."

"What?" She snaps her head around to stare incredulously at her dad.

She hates that she keeps thinking about what Castle would say—especially since he's standing right there—but she can't help feeling like this is an exemplary _et tu, Brute_ moment.

Jim shrugs lightly, a move that makes her wince when it jars her head and her vision blacks out for a couple of seconds. He apologizes, and then explains, "I just don't think it's a good idea for you to be traveling right now."

"But I—what—_Dad_," she exclaims, but it comes out sounding more like a whine than anything that's passed through her lips in over a decade.

"_Katie_," Jim replies in that universally acknowledged parental tone of warning.

She hasn't heard him use it in so long that she stares at him in stunned surprise, not knowing how to respond to it. He cocks an eyebrow at her, and she feels a respondent desire to complain like she's sixteen again. She suppresses it, barely, and sighs.

"Fine. Whatever. Can I go sit down and get a cup of coffee? My head is killing me."

She should be irritated when she sees her dad and Castle share a commiserating glance, but instead she's…amused. It's strange. She wouldn't have imagined that she would feel light this morning, but she kind of does.

Maybe she's still a bit intoxicated.

…

"Castle, you've been here for half the day. Don't you better things to be doing?"

_Like taking blond flight attendants out to fancy restaurants or following freakin' insane detectives for inspiration_?

Kate valiantly bites back the recriminations. Not her place, she reminds herself.

No," he responds.

She waits for some smartass remark to shoot through his lips, but he doesn't add anything. It throws her off, like everything else has for the past day and a half.

…

"Castle, why are you here?" she eventually asks when she's finally fed up with the fact that he's just taken up residence on her sofa like it's no big deal.

It _is_ a big deal when they haven't even really been friends for the last several weeks.

He looks up at her from the book he'd stolen off her shelves. "Because that's what partners do."

Anger wells up hot and frighteningly quick. The filter between her mouth and her brain is out of commission and the words spit themselves out before she even has a chance to think them. "Bullshit, Castle. We both know we haven't been _partners_ in more than a month."

He stiffens, and the open, friendly (_false_, she thinks, _so very false_) expression wipes away until there's nothing but a carefully blanked slate. "I still care about you, Kate."

She shakes her head, not in denial, but disbelief that he could even say that after all the cold shoulders and pointed words he's fed her.

"Sure you do," she mutters, not sure if she means for him to hear it or not.

Her heart still aches every time she thinks of those two weeks filled with underhanded snipes and deliberate brush-offs followed by another week of him breaking up their partnership to shadow another detective. He came back, sure, but not until Slaughter got suspended by the board of review for excessive violence. Apparently Castle had even testified on Slaughter's behalf, but the overwhelming evidence spoke for itself.

She doesn't even know him anymore.

That was the moment she stopped hoping that he would snap out of his funk. If he wanted to get away from her so badly that he was willing to testify on behalf of a guy who was more than halfway insane, then so be it.

She doesn't need Richard Castle in her life, no matter that her ever-present wall had begun disintegrating for his sake. After all, he'd helped her build a better fortified one in its stead.

And her dad. Jeez, her dad.

She knows he means well, but it really doesn't help when he leaves them alone for these extended periods of time thinking that—what? They want to spend time with each other? This awkward tension between them will go away? That Castle would somehow magically make her better?

Memories from last summer when the strength of her nightmares were dulled only by the soothing pages of one of Castle's books are deeply entrenched in both Kate's and Jim's minds, so it makes some kind of sense for her dad to think that the good Castle's books did for her can only be magnified by the man himself. It's faulty logic, but not something for which Kate can blame her dad.

Of course, the fact that Jim doesn't know how badly it hurts her to see Castle is actually Kate's fault since she never told her dad about their recent breakup. Of their partnership, she adds.

Then she scoffs a little at herself. What's the point in pretending that their partnership was the only thing rent asunder? Even if she never acknowledges aloud the depth of her feelings for him, the fact is that the pain of losing him is no less crushing. She may never tell him how totally and completely he's broken her, but she shouldn't lie to herself anymore.

She settles back into the large armchair she's been confined to and leans her head against the back of it. The effects of her hangover still plague her in the form of a persistently throbbing headache and an unsettled stomach.

…

"What happened last night?" Castle asks out of the blue twenty minutes later.

He's sitting on the end of the couch that's furthest away from Kate with a notebook on his lap and a pen in his hand. He hasn't written anything, not that either of them had expected him to when he made his request for the tools of his trade. They both know it's a prop to establish a façade that he's not just sitting there, watching her as if she might free fall into mental instability at any moment.

The worst part is that she really might.

Kate screws her eyes shut to block out memories of wild panic converging with rampant paranoia. "Leave it alone, Castle. It's none of your business."

Castle ignores her and persists. (Of course he does. He never backs down, except when she doesn't want him to.)

"Do you have episodes like this often?"

She snaps. "God damn it, Castle! What the hell makes you think you have the right to ask me anything? I don't know what my dad told you about last night, or why he thought it would be a good idea for him to call you but I—"

"He didn't tell me anything," Castle says quietly. "I was here."

Her breathing stutters as her pent up anger drains so suddenly, she's left dizzy and unbalanced and flooded with a whole new set of emotions. Joy that he'd actually been there last night, that his presence hadn't been a figment of her unreliable imagination. Embarrassment that he'd seen her at her lowest. Resentment that she'd been so exposed and hadn't even had a chance to fend for herself. Hurt that he hadn't stayed with her through the night.

Then, when everything else runs its course, she's mostly just weary. Weary from spending so long hiding the damaged pieces of her (sometimes it feels like that's all she is). Weary from trying to mend something that breaks every time she sews it back up.

And now that he's seen the ugly underbelly of her psyche despite everything she'd done to avoid that, she realizes that it's all such a waste of time and effort.

"So what, Castle? You think that gives you a free pass to dig out all my sordid secrets just because you've seen firsthand how fucked up I am? Or did you want some more material so that you can add a psychotic break to Nikki Heat's sparkling personality?"

"Damn you, Kate," he growls, his blue eyes darkening to a stormy gray. "Damn you to hell if you think that the only reason I'm here is because I want to exploit you."

"That's just it, Castle! I _don't_ know why the hell you're here. I don't know why you suddenly _care_ when you didn't give a rat's ass about me just two days ago. I don't know why you're pretending like I matter when all you want right now is fun and uncomplicated and the goddamn 'Widow-maker.' I _don't know_ why you're here!"

…

Castle clenches his hands into fists so tight, his knuckles turn white and he can feel crescents forming in his palm where his blunt nails dig hard into the flesh.

He tries to ride the tide of anger that wash over him, tries to remember that Kate's emotions are still unsettled, but it doesn't work because he knows that she's never been this honest before.

And it tears him apart because it's taken this—the demolition of their partnership and the instability of her emotional state—for her to say actual words, but this honesty is scathing and almost too much because she isn't hiding behind her wall anymore. She lets him see every ounce of her vexation, her pain, her anger, and—this confuses him the most—her utter _heartbreak_.

He forces himself to breathe deeply through his nose, to calm himself before he says something scathing. If she wants honesty, then he'll give her honesty.

"I'm here," he says in a low voice, "because I love you."

She stares at him blankly, incredulity painted in thick, broad strokes across the elegant features of her face. "What?"

He shakes his head. "Is that really so surprising, Kate? You already know it. You've known for about a year, in fact."

He watches in fascination as gears turn and scattered information fall into place. Comprehension sparks in her eyes followed by disbelief and a riot of emotions that flash through faster than it should be possible for the human mind to compute.

Everything runs so quickly that he doesn't have a chance to dissect her emotions before she's already speaking. "So that's it then? _That's _the reason behind all the drama these past months?"

"_Drama_?" he repeats in disbelief. "What, you think I was throwing some kind of childish fit?"

"No, but I _do_ think you were trying to punish me. And damn you, Castle, because it worked. When you stomped on our friendship and spat on our partnership? Yeah, congratulations. That _hurt_."

He looks away sharply, pained by the knowledge that his barbs had indeed sunk into tender flesh, but the bubbling anger he thought he'd suppressed wells up once again.

She doesn't get to do that. She doesn't get to make this _his_ fault.

He stands, the notebook and pen clattering to the floor, and paces in front the coffee table. He wants to get up into her face, but his emotions are far too volatile right now, and he just can't be near her. She stirs up too much in him.

"You seem to be forgetting that you're the one who lied. You're the one who strung me along like a clueless idiot with empty promises of some day."

Kate jumps out of her seat and has to steady herself from the dizzy spell by extending a hand behind her to brace against the armrest. "_String you along_? Damn it, Castle, is that what you thought I've been doing? God, I don't even know how to dignify that with a response."

"What the hell am I supposed to think? I tell you I love you, and you lie to me for a _year_ about not remembering. You couldn't tell_ me_ the truth, but you could throw it out in the interrogation room as ammunition to get your confession? Tell me, what am I supposed to think?"

"You weren't supposed to think the worst of me!" She rakes a hand through her tangled locks, and she tugs her hair in frustration. "Call me a selfish bitch, Rick, but I'm not sorry for lying to you. I'm sorry that I hurt you, but I can't be sorry for taking the time I needed to out myself back together. I _can't_ be sorry for thinking about myself first because if I hadn't, I wouldn't even be standing here today. Not as I am, anyway."

He freezes and a chill pierces his veins. "What are you talking about?"

She shakes her head, not in denial, but self-deprecation. "Just look at me, Castle. Most of the time you see Detective Kate Beckett, unbending and unbreakable. Supercop. Sometimes you see Kate Beckett the woman, sexy and confident and fun. Most of the time, though?" She gestured at herself. "This is what I am. This broken, screwed up person who can barely walk outside most days. I needed to stand up on my own two feet before I started leaning on you. Because if I leaned on you from the start, I wouldn't know how to walk by myself. I needed to know that if you weren't here, I could make it on my own."

Castle rubs a weary hand down his face, wondering how this conversation spiraled so far out of control. His thoughts are a kaleidoscope of broken images and fractured sentences, and for all her revelations, he can't get past this one fact. "You don't trust me to stay. You don't trust that when I say always, I mean it. You just don't trust me."

Hazel eyes flame red, and she shoves him. Hard. He stumbles back several steps, almost tripping over the coffee table behind him.

"Goddamn it, Rick. You keep saying these things like you're surprised, but why the hell should it shock you? You're right. I don't trust you. Why should I trust you? Why should I show you every vulnerable, screwed up part of me? Why should I let you see me at my lowest? Why, Castle? Because you _love_ _me_? So much that at the first mistake I make, you punish me for it? Why should I have to let you in? So that you can tear me apart, piece by piece until there's nothing left? Why, Castle? Tell me. Why should I trust you?"

"Why should you—" He cuts himself off with a hard bite of his tongue. He can't believe that she's actually using his love for her against him, can't believe that she can _say _these things and mean it. Indignation boils up hot and heavy within him and he can't take it anymore. He explodes. "Because of everything we've been through together! Four years I've been _right here_! Does that mean _nothing_ to you?"

"Does it mean nothing to _you_?" she returns. Her jaw tightens, but rather than coming off angry, she looks contemplative. "I'm not the only one with trust issues here, Castle. Despite _everything that we've been through together_," she repeats his words emphatically, "you don't seem to have any trouble thinking the worst of me either."

The air squeezes out of him in a great _whoosh_, and just like that, his rage deflates and he's left feeling…defeated. She doesn't trust him to stay, and he doesn't trust her to love him. Why is it that two people can trust each other with their lives, yet be so reticent with their hearts?

Kate bites her lip and glances away, noting something in his posture that she can't stand to see. She takes a deep breath and continues, "Look, you're entitled to your anger, I know. You have a right to be furious at me for lying for so long. I'm not denying you that, nor am I saying that I'm faultless. I just…sometimes I feel like you know me better than anyone, but sometimes I feel like you don't know me at all."

Silence wraps them up in its mantle, its curling tendrils filling the chasms torn between them. It settles there, a neutral presence that neither rips apart nor draws closer, and it's strange that perhaps for the first time, Kate and Castle are on the same page. Hurts have been exposed, fears revealed, hopes barely touched on, and the only question now is where do they go from here?

Castle thinks back to just hours earlier this morning when he'd deliberately chosen to love, regardless of whatever backlash may occur. He hadn't expected the trial of thorns to appear so quickly, but here stands before him the first obstacle. It hurts, rakes him from the inside until he feels like he's just a standing, bloody mess. There is so much distrust between them, so much buried pain and lingering wounds. Can he really fix this? Does he even have the ability to?

He'd chosen to hold fast and make his stand, but he realizes that he can't do it alone. He needs her to do her part in this as well. She has to be willing to put in as much as he is, maybe not all at once, but he needs her to commit _something_.

He licks his suddenly parched lips and swallows hard. "You say that I don't know real you. Okay, maybe that's true, but how am I supposed to get to know the real you if you never let me see her? Give me a chance—give us a chance—to really get to know each other, weaknesses and insecurities all. I can promise you that in the end, I'll only love you more."

* * *

_A/N: First of all, yes, I jacked some lines from "Always." Consider it my tribute to the best finale ever. :)_

_The big issue I think a lot of people might have is how I had Kate deal with Castle revealing that he heard her say she remembered everything. I chose to do it this way for a couple of reasons. One, this is essentially a spin-off from "The Limey" on, so neither of them have gone through the growth we saw in "Headhunters," "Undead Again," and "Always." Instead, that poison has dragged on for a month and a half without any resolution. Two, even in "Always," I noticed that Kate never exactly apologized for lying about remembering. Her apology at the end of the episode seemed to be more about the fact that she'd heedlessly pursued her shooter than it was for this. That's really the basis for my spin that Kate isn't necessarily sorry about the lie itself. Three, they, especially Kate, are extremely emotionally volatile at this moment and just like in real life, not everything they say is necessarily really what they mean. Four, these aren't their final thoughts on the matter because this will definitely crop up again. _

_Okay, I'm done with my rambling now. Even though this is a different approach than usual and way different from how it panned out in the canon, I hope you all still find it believable and enjoyable. Thanks for reading, and I still crossing my fingers that the next chapter will come out without so much wrestling with the characters._


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Gah! I can't believe it's nearly been a month since this has been updated. I'm am so immeasurably sorry it's taken so long. In any case, t__hank you so much for your very sweet support so far, and I really do appreciate it when I hear your thoughts about this. Believe it or not, your reviews do change how I see the characters as I've written them, and they sometimes affect how I choose to have certain confrontations take place. So thank you for all your input, and I hope that you'll continue working with me on this. _

_Thanks!_

* * *

Chapter Five

* * *

Hours later, Kate still isn't altogether sure what had happened that afternoon.

Angry words had been exchanged and wounds gouged open and yet... Yet he's still here telling her that he wants to work through her issues.

She can't believe that he's still here. _Why _would he still be willing to put himself through the torture she's raining down on him? She's not blind to the fact that her words had been merciless blades meant to cut deep.

There's a twisted part of her that she's just now recognizing exists. It's gone unacknowledged for years, maybe because no one has ever gotten this close to her; no one has ever pushed her this hard. There's just never been a _Castle_ in her life. But now that he is, now that he insists on standing with her, she sees an ugly truth in herself.

Her wall is an excuse, a man-made construct—a _her_-made construct—whose purpose isn't to keep out, but keep in. It was made to imprison herself, reinforced with spiked walls to remind her that she cannot escape the prison of her own psyche. She pushes people away—pushes _him_—so hard because she works under this convoluted concept that if she pushes hard enough that he leaves, then she will be justified in not giving him a chance at all.

What it all boils down to is the fact that she's really just a coward.

She can see it now, but she doesn't know if she can overcome it, doesn't know how to fix herself. She doesn't know how to change it so that her first instinct isn't self-sabotage.

"How are you still here, Castle?" she murmurs, more to herself than to him.

But of course he hears her. He's always heard her, even when she doesn't want him to. Maybe that's the problem.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

She swallows, wishes her mouth would stop running away from her like that, but the words have already escaped. He's already given her so much of his dignity. Why can't she return the favor?

"I don't understand how you can still be here even after everything I've said."

His mouth spreads in a small, crooked smile. "I'm a glutton for punishment?"

She rolls her eyes, and then just like that, much of the tension that has gripped her since their fight has dissipated. He's always been able to do that. He's so good at knowing exactly what the situation calls for and how to respond, whether it be with a "Because you're tall" meant to make her smile, or a heartfelt "I thought you were a mystery I was never going to solve" that brought her out of the clawing snares of memory.

He does that for her, and she knows, despite everything she'd said earlier, that nobody has known her so thoroughly as he does.

In truth, _she's_ the one who hides behind these exchanges. She's the one who doesn't dare to go beyond subtleties and heavy subtext-laden conversations. She's the one who hides behind anger like it could shield her from feeling too much.

He deserves more than angry words from her.

She licks her lips and scoots to the edge of the armchair so that she can rest her elbows on her knees, her gaze firmly fixed on the wood of her coffee table.

"Remember what I told you that first time you asked me why I didn't want to reopen my mother's case, and I said that it was for the same reason that a recovering alcoholic doesn't drink?"

"Yes."

She can feel the weight of Castle's gaze on her, but she doesn't dare lift up her eyes to meet his. She's afraid that if she looks at him, she'll chicken out.

Instead, she fingers the material of her pants and soldiers on. "I keep thinking about that S&M case we had, and how the roommate had killed our victim because she'd become so dangerously dependent that she couldn't let go. Castle, sometimes I feel like that with you. It's so easy for you to become…my addiction. My drug. My safety blanket. And…it isn't healthy."

His eyes study her so intently that she feels like they're drills burrowing into the very depths of her soul.

"Are you afraid of me, Kate?"

No," she replied quickly—too quickly. "Yes. I don't know." She pauses, gives him the respect of honesty and says, "I think…I'm afraid of what you could do to me."

She can almost feel him deliberating whether he should really ask the next logical question. "What could I do to you?"

"You could break me," she finally whispers, emotion cracking her voice.

"It's frightening letting another person have that power over you, isn't it?" he asks rhetorically, voice gentle. Then he confesses, "You already have that power over me."

She chokes on a silent sob. "How am I supposed to handle that responsibly?"

She hears him shifting, then suddenly he's crouching down in front of her, his large hands engulfing hers. "I was kinda hoping we could figure it out together."

She blinks back tears, panic rising in her just at the thought of everything he's placing in her incapable hands. He tilts her chin up until she's forced to meet his gaze, and his eyes are so very warm, a soft expression in them that she hasn't seen for weeks, maybe months. It's almost too much to bear.

She closes her eyes, bringing one hand up to cradle his as she leans into his touch.

"You deserve someone so much better than me."

"No," he responds sharply, and her gaze flies to his in surprise. "You don't get to say that. You don't get to choose what I want or don't want. That's my decision. Not yours."

Her breath hitches. Logically, she knows that. She knows she doesn't get to choose what his heart wants. But her fears have never been logical, and she's so afraid of him seeing all of her vulnerabilities and weaknesses.

Yet…if she doesn't give him this—give them this—what right does she have to ask him to stay? What right does she have to keep him from living his own life?

"Okay," she says suddenly, surprising even herself. "Yes."

"Yes?" he repeats, hope a dangerous entity even as his lips quirk into a small smile.

"Yes." She nods, more resolute this time. "Let's give us a chance to really get to know each other. And…we'll go from there."

His smile grows into a full-blown grin—his joy is infectious and she finds herself smiling just as radiantly—as he pulls her down off of the armchair and into his arms. The momentum of her crashing into him causes them to tumble together to the floor, and she surprises herself when she lets out a bark of laughter.

There's still so much baggage between them, but this…this is a beginning.

…

Kate can feel Lanie eyeing them suspiciously when the ME drops by after her shift to check on Kate. She knows Lanie will take the first opportunity to pull her away from the safety of her dad's and Castle's presence, but surprisingly, there's no monster of anxiety following the thought. In fact, if anything, Kate feels…excited to tell her friend about the new developments.

That's unheard of.

Especially since they're not really dating. They're just…getting to know each other?

That sounds ridiculous, considering everything they've been through together, but it's true nonetheless. They're both too good at hiding, and if she wants this thing between them to work—she desperately wants it to work—then they have to learn to stop hiding.

She knows it won't be easy, but the thought of sinking into _them_ still brings an irrepressible light to her eyes.

Even the knowledge that she's being inexplicably eager to share the new developments of her relationship with Castle doesn't damper the silly giddiness that infuses her. She never realized how freeing it would be when they finally give in to the near-inevitability of their being together.

She wonders how much she's cheated herself out of in life because she's been too afraid to risk. She always thought that she's an adventurous person—someone who thinks outside the box and acts on it with boldness—but it's only now that she's beginning to see how much she's held back in living life to the fullest.

So when Lanie finally pulls Kate to her room after a dinner of Italian takeout with Jim and Castle still around, Kate complies willingly. Maybe even a bit enthusiastically.

"Alright, girl, what the hell happened today?" Lanie demands almost immediately after the door shuts behind them. "I left you a mess and I come back to find you glowing. Kate, you're freaking _glowing._"

Kate bites her bottom lip, a crazy, stupid-in-love smile fighting to break out, and she knows that Lanie's right. Everything is so sudden, so insanely, crazily sudden, but instead of making her freak out, it all just feels _right_.

"He wouldn't leave, Lanie," Kate finally confesses, awe and lingering surprise still lacing her tone. "I threw hell at him, and he wouldn't leave." She laughs. "God, he's must be crazy for not leaving."

Lanie cocks her head to the side and gives her a look that clearly says that the ME thinks that Kate might have finally lost a few marbles. "He didn't leave, so you're now off the moon? Girl, I could have told you he wouldn't leave years ago."

Kate shakes her head. "No, you couldn't. He couldn't either. Not years ago. But he can now. And now, I believe him."

Lanie studies her, the light of understanding beginning to flicker to existence in her head. It's not exactly accurate, but if Lanie had to scale down Kate's problems to just one cause, she would pick abandonment issues. That Kate is now so certain that the writer is here to stay…

Well, _big _would be a huge understatement.

"What changed?"

Kate lets out a self-deprecating laugh. "We fought. He saw me at my lowest and my meanest—and God, Lanie, I was really, really _mean_—and instead of running the other way, he just told me that he wanted to get to know the me I've been holding back from him. He's crazy, Lanie. He's so freaking crazy."

"Crazy about you, apparently," murmured the ME, her mind still a whir. "What about his 'I'm too cool for school' stunt these past couple of weeks?"

"Ah…That…might actually be my fault. Well, shared fault," she amends, remembering the biting pangs of hurt that had plagued her for weeks and even now had her clenching her teeth to ward off the tears.

"Explain." Kate quirks an eyebrow at her and Lanie stares back unafraid. "What?"

"I lied to him." She sobers when she realizes that he wasn't the only one she'd lied to. "I lied to everyone. When I told you all I didn't remember that day? The truth is…I never forgot."

Lanie's eyebrows furrow. "I can't say I'm happy that you lied to me, but I can understand why. It's easier with PTSD to just forget sometimes. Why's that such a big deal?"

"Because," Kate heaves a deep breath, "he told me he loved me. When I was lying there bleeding out, he told me he loved me. And in response, I lied to his face and told him I didn't remember anything. Lanie, at the hospital when I woke up, I told him some things are better forgotten."

Lanie winces. "Ooh, ouch." Then her eyes widen. "And he found out about it?"

"He found out, and the worst part is that I wasn't the one to tell him."

"Mm, well, I guess that explains that. He didn't handle it in the best way, but I get it. Shoot, now I feel kinda guilty…"

"Guilty? For what?"

Lanie chuckles a little sheepishly. "I kinda ripped into the guy yesterday at the morgue."

"What? Why?"

"I was mad at him. At you, too, for that matter."

"At me? Why?"

Lanie glares at her. "Don't say stupid things like, Kate, because I know you're really not that dumb. How long have you not been to Dr. Burke's office?"

And then just like that, all that giddy joy that had flooded her from thoughts of her and Castle drains away.

Kate remembers why she'd been so hesitant to dive in with him, so afraid to show him how messed up she really is. For goodness sake, just last night she'd drowned herself in the bottle even though she'd sworn—she'd _sworn_—never again.

Panic sets in, oxygen suddenly a precious commodity of which she can't seem to take in enough.

Who is she to think that she can really make this work with Castle? Who is she to think that she can really get better?

"Oh, no. Stop that right now," demands Lanie, her strong fingers digging into the bone of Kate's shoulders. "I can see you panicking all the way from right here, and I'm telling you to just _stop._"

It takes an exorbitant effort, but Kate manages to focus her eyes on the stern brown of Lanie's. "God, Lanie, what am I thinking? I can't do this!"

"Yes, you can, and I will tell you exactly what you are thinking," the ME bites out fiercely. "You are thinking that _that man _out there—the one probably burning a hole in your rug from pacing and wondering what the hell we're talking about in here—he will not leave. You already blew up at him and bitched at him to the best of your ability, but he's still here. He's not leaving. And girl, lemme tell you that you don't find a man like that just anywhere. You hear me? He's not leaving."

"He's not leaving," Kate mouths slowly after Lanie, the shudders she didn't even notice wracking her body now beginning to even out. Kate's forehead drops onto her friend's shoulder, and she lets out a muffled groan. "Lanie, I'm so screwed up."

Lanie snorts. "Hell yes, you are. But you are not going to give up that man because of that. You got that?"

It takes her a couple of seconds, but Kate nods. "Yeah, I got it."

Lanie pulls back as if to see how honest she thinks Kate is being. Whatever she sees—and honestly, Kate doesn't know how the ME can see anything beyond the wide dilation of her pupils—must be enough to convince her. "Good. Now, do you think you're up to telling me why you've been skipping out on your therapy sessions, or will I have to drag it out of you?"

Kate puffs out a laugh despite herself. "You're relentless."

"I'm just taking advantage of the fact that you still seem to be in a share-y mood right now. It hasn't happened much in the past couple of weeks," Lanie says bluntly.

The detective winces. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that."

"Kate, I don't need or want your apologies. I just want to know what's going on in that pretty little head of yours. You should know by now that one of the first signs of PTSD reemerging is a refusal to talk to your support, which in your case is Dr. Burke."

Kate presses her lips together and glances away. "It's stupid, Lanie."

A dark brow rises high. "Therapy is not stupid."

"No, I mean the reason I started spiraling again. My trigger." Kate takes a deep breath. "Part of it…part of it is because the anniversary of my shooting was coming up. The other part…I was just so used to of Castle being there as an emotional support that it threw me off when he _wasn__'__t_ there anymore. And I thought, if he could lie to me, if he could go back on his _always, _then why should I do what he asked? It was stupid, such a stupid, childish reaction, but I started looking into my mom's murder again. The paranoia started up first, and I recognized it—I _knew_ that I should go see Dr. Burke, but then I was so embarrassed. I'd been doing so well, had been improving, and I didn't want him to see how much I'd slipped back."

"Kate, honey, that's what Dr. Burke is there for. There's nothing to be embarrassed about."

"I know, I _know_. I never said I was rational. Anyway, without Dr. Burke as my sounding board, the paranoia got worse and then the flashbacks and the nightmares came back. But the worse they got, the less I wanted to let Burke see how bad it'd gotten, and the vicious cycle just kept going on and on like that…until last night."

Lanie sighs, sitting down at the edge of the bed and patting the space next to her for Kate to sit down too. "Sweetie, you need to promise me that the next time you even suspect that you are starting to spiral again—and I hate to say, but there _will _be a next time; that's just the nature of PTSD—you get on the phone and you call me or Dr. Burke right away. No excuses. I've seen your sorry ass do more embarrassing things than have a relapse episode."

Kate sighs, knowing that she might not be able to do it even as she gives her assent. She wants to be better at this so badly, but she—

_No_, she chides herself. No excuses. She's done giving herself excuses about how hard it is to be honest and vulnerable. She has never been afraid of hard work before, so why should she use that as an excuse now?

"Okay." Kate nods. "I promise."

"Good." Lanie eyes her from her peripheral vision. "When are you going to tell Castle?"

"About this?"

The ME gives her a funny look that says all too clearly, _What else?_ "Yes…" she drags out.

"I'm not telling him."

Lanie sits up straight and shoots her a glare. "Oh, yes, you are."

"No. No, nono. I'm not. I can't. You can't tell him, either, Lanie."

"Girl, you can't just hide this from him!" exclaims the black woman, incredulity etched into every nuance of her expression.

"I'm not—I just—" Kate breaks herself off, then tries again. "He can't know why, Lanie. He'll think it's all his fault. It'll break him."

"And you think you lying to him _again_ won't?"

"At least he won't blame himself for something that isn't really his fault. He can't help it that I got emotionally dependent on him."

Lanie palms her face. "Oh my God, Kate, that is the dumbest thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth. If you're going to be in a relationship, there's going to be a degree of emotional dependency involved."

"Of course I know that. I just don't want him to have to shoulder this burden. I'm screwed up enough as it is. I don't want to make it even harder for him."

Silence falls between the two friends, and Kate thinks that maybe Lanie has finally decided to back off, but instead, the ME blindsides her with, "Are you still hungover?"

"Excuse me?"

"'Cause that's the only reasonable explanation for why your brain isn't working." Kate shoots her a dirty look, but Lanie ignores it completely. "As much as you may hate it, your emotional scars as just as much a part of you now as your physical ones. You can't expect to make this real with him and not tell him how much he's contributed to your emotional wounds. It's not about whom to blame or not to blame; it's about _sharing _your lives. Your relationship might work for now, it might even be great, but there'll always be that time bomb if you don't ever talk about it. And you know how well keeping things from him worked out the first time around."

Kate clenches her jaw as the truth in Lanie's words slides under her ribs to find its mark in the tender muscle of her heart. The majority of her knows that Lanie is right, but still, her heart aches just thinking about it. "It'll kill him to know."

"And you think the pain will be any less if you keep this from him? Kate, you and Castle are very different people. You heal best—or you _think_ you heal best—in solitary. Castle? Castle doesn't do the alone thing. You need to understand that the victims themselves aren't the only ones who get PTSD. People who have witnessed the event can sometimes get it as well. I'm not saying Castle has PTSD; he doesn't exhibit any of the signs. But what he _does_ have are a lot of emotional wounds that _you _help put there. And for him, the best way of getting over those wounds is by helping you get over yours.

"So you either get your head out of your skinny ass, and you really do this with him—truths and scars and all—or you let go before you hurt each other even worse." Lanie pauses. "Of course, with what you just told me, he's not going to let _you _go, no matter what kind of hell you give him, so when it comes down to it, you don't really have a choice."

Kate presses the heel of her palm into her eyes socket until bursts of light shoot through her closed lids.

God, she's going to break him before they even begin.


End file.
